The meeting was over. I was the last to leave the room. That’s when I saw it on the table.
A memory stick.
I’d forgotten about it, until I found it in my coat pocket, months later.
It contained a life. Her name. Face. Job. Bank and pay details. Christmas lists. E-mail arguments and disciplinary information. Counselling. A depression diary. Photos of potential boyfriends. All bald potatoes. I knew everything about her. I even discovered that her previous boss (who she hated) had left to become a dentist. “She loves inflicting pain.”
All this. And she didn’t know I existed.
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